


Run, My Love

by buttcatcher



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, love how the show portrayed their relationship, true shrek and donkey vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-22 15:23:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22618258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttcatcher/pseuds/buttcatcher
Summary: “I’m not forgiving you that easy.”“I know.”“You broke my heart, Geralt, and I know you’re not oblivious to my feelings about you. I never tried to hide them.”“…I know.”“You’re an asshole and I should hate you for how you treated me up there,” Jaskier sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and worried it as he stared at the hulking man before him looking like he wanted to either bolt or disappear into the ground. “But I don’t. I don’t think I ever could.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 413





	Run, My Love

**Author's Note:**

> The Witcher 3 is my favorite game of all time and I had to write something for it ok.

Of all the things that could have happened atop that mountain, Jaskier supposes he shouldn’t be so surprised it ended the way it did. After all, Geralt had made it clear numerous times throughout their journeys together that he only tolerated the bard’s presence.

It was a fact; a cold, hard, heartbreaking fact, and Jaskier was dumb enough to believe the witcher had been warming up to him. All those little side eyed glances Geralt would send him throughout the day, the gentle crow’s feet crinkling around his captivating eyes like he was holding back a little smile; the way those dense shoulders relaxed under the ministration of deft fingers massaging out the aches in the tub; the way he caught the taller man huff a breath of laughter when Jaskier stumbled one particularly rainy day and fell face first into a puddle of what he had hoped was mud.

All of it meant nothing.

Well, meant nothing to _Geralt,_ obviously, but to Jaskier…

To Jaskier, they meant everything.

“Fucking arse,” The bard swore under his breath as he crashed through the foliage on his way down that blasted mountain, aiming to put as much distance between himself and the cause of the hot tears stinging his eyes as possible. His heart had already been broken, shattered into a million little pieces in his ribcage; the sharp sting of branches and sharp vines hitting him as he finally came upon a little clearing were nothing compared to what felt like molten lava running through his veins.

The bard spotted a fallen log in the early evening dusk and threw himself down on it while angrily scrubbing his hands over his face to get rid of the stinging in his eyes, uncaring that he was absolutely filthy and surely rubbing nothing but dirt and grime over his skin.

Sure, he was no stranger to heartbreak. What bard wasn’t? The pain made his songs hit home, made them have just that much more emotion in them that aided in filling his pockets. Any minstrel worth their salt would be able to sing from the heart, to sing from experience felt firsthand. 

Like many other bards, he fell in one bed and then into another like one would change clothes. Love came and left him at the drop of a hat; as soon as he learned the story of a person, his heart sought out the stories of another, over and over again until he couldn’t list all his loves if he tried.

This time though… this time Jaskier knew he was in too deep. Knew he had been setting himself up for a heartbreak of a magnitude he hadn’t experienced before. Nothing about Geralt was representative of his type; the man was gruff, barely bathed unless Jaskier forced him to, and had full conversations with his horse despite having a traveling companion. He was emotionally constipated and rough with his words and actions, didn’t care for music nor appreciate the beauty that was Jaskier’s voice, but he was…

He was perfect to Jaskier. Unlike anyone he had ever met.

The thundering of his heart was like a hummingbird trapped in a glass bottle, each beat against the walls more and more painful as what happened atop the mountain truly sunk in.

The soft hum of insects heralding the night helped Jaskier calm down a bit, their song reminding him of Geralt’s warnings about making a fire to keep wildlife away while he slept. “Fuck Geralt and fuck making a fire,” Jaskier spit to himself as he hastily cleared a space from leaves and debris beside the log before sitting crossed legged with his back against the bark, uncaring that his aching back was going to regret sleeping without a bedroll in the morning. Said bedroll was still with Roach, and with Roach was Geralt, so he considered his only comfort during nights camping in the wilderness gone. No way was he seeking out the witcher just to get some blankets, hypothermia be damned.

It was starting to get chilly though, goosebumps breaking out over his sweat soaked skin and his body shuddering as exhaustion from the hike down sank deep into his bones. Unbidden, memories of piercing yellow eyes came to mind, ethereal and inhuman and _furious,_ a strong mouth spitting venom at the closest target with the same lips that had bestowed small, secret smiles at him.

Jaskier wasn’t a fool-- he knew Geralt took out his anger about whatever happened with Yennefer on him, knew that he was probably just an outlet for the emotionally constipated man, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. There he had been, trying to help the hurting man by offering to whisk him away to the coast and help him lick his wounds, only to be the unwilling recipient of the unrestrained wrath of a scorned witcher.

In that moment, Jaskier had seen so many emotions fighting for dominance on Geralt’s battle worn face, more than he thinks he’s ever seen before. And all of it was because of Yennefer. He knew the woman was nothing but trouble, caught the way the taller man’s catlike eyes would follow her every move like she would disappear if he looked away, and _god,_ had that hurt. 

All those rumors about witchers having no feelings… it was all bullshit. Maybe it held a grain of truth for other witchers, ones Jaskier had never met and didn’t care to, but for Geralt—caring, brutish Geralt—the bard knew he felt more than he let on. It was there when he whispered secrets to his horse when he thought no one could hear him, was there when curious children ran up to him with innocence in their eyes before their parents could whisk them away from the Butcher of Blaviken, from the being they both feared and needed.

With a miserable sniff, Jaskier tugged his lute off his back and positioned it in his lap, hands easily finding their place on the instrument. If he couldn’t reason with himself that this was for the best, that Yennefer was Geralt’s destiny and he was no more than a useless bard tossed to the side, then he could sing until his throat hurt just as much as his heart. 

The first strum of strings had his shoulders sagging, the familiar musical notes soothing his hurt like a salve.

_“I wish I was on yonder hill,  
'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,  
And every tear would turn a mill.  
I'll sell my rod, I'll sell my reel,  
I'll sell my only spinning wheel,  
To buy my love a sword of steel.”_

It was a song he had been working on as he and Geralt made their way through small war-torn villages, the grief and stricken looks on the townspeople and the condition of the ransacked huts they called homes pulling at his heartstrings. 

_“I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red,  
And 'round the world I'll beg my bread,  
Until my parents shall wish me dead.  
Come, come, come, O love,  
Quickly come to me, softly move;  
Come to the door, and away we'll flee  
And safe for aye may my darling be!”_

The last few notes of the song rang out softly in the night, the background noise of cicadas and other wildlife sounds making the tune all that more somber. With the last strings strummed, Jaskier sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm himself and focus on the world around him; the bark digging into his back, the cool earth beneath him, the rustling in the foliage just on the outskirts of the clearing—

Wait. 

His heart beat a rabbit’s pace in his chest as he slowly set his lute to the side and unsheathed the dagger he had bought on Geralt’s behest the first time he started tagging along with the grumpy man and horse duo. A few sparse lessons on how to use it flickered through his mind as a grungy looking man stepped out of the darkness, three more men following in close pursuit behind him. “Well now, who do we have ‘ere?” The leader smiled a crooked, yellow toothed smile, his goonies behind him clutching their various weapons with matching sinister smiles. 

All at once, the grubby and dirty appearance of the men struck Jaskier with a note of familiarity. 

Reavers. 

“Didn’t think the ol’ White Wolf would let his bitch go off on his own,” The leader of the Reavers taunted, the sheer glee dancing across his face making a sensation not unlike a stone sink in Jaskier’s gut. “Thought ‘e would’a been more… _possessive_ of his belongin’s,” A voice came from behind him, startling him enough to rip his eyes away from the group standing a few feet in front of him to the man he hadn’t noticed crouching on the log right above his head, a considerably sharp dagger held comfortably in the man’s hand as he pointed it at Jaskier.

Fuck.

They were the Reavers who competed against them to kill the dragon; the same group who cut the throat of that knight who left the circle to relieve his bowels. They were dangerous, held nothing sacred at all, yet he couldn’t stop the surge of anger that ripped through him at the disgusting man’s words. “I’m not a _possession,_ ” Jaskier spat, knowing he was doing exactly what Geralt always told him not to do if he was ever confronted—be himself. “I’m a _person_ and I take great offense to that statement.”

A muscle twitched in the Reaver leader’s jaw. “This one’s talkative, aye?” He leered. “Where’s yer wolf?” The hurt expression Jaskier knew he must be making made the leader throw his head back with a guttural laugh, the sound grating and not kind at all. “Oh, this is jus’ perfect. He cast you aside?” 

A surge of bone deep hurt washed over Jaskier, the intensity of it muting the fear that weighed his limbs. “None of your business.”

The leader stalked forward until he was kneeling in front of the bard trapped on the ground, the smell of his putrid breath making Jaskier’s nose burn. “It _is_ my business, little bard. Yer Wolf took somethin’ from us, so we just gonna return the favor.” Soulless brown eyes flicked up to the man crouched above Jaskier on the log, and before he could think to take the chance to drive the dagger into the man while he was distracted, a blow across his cheek made the world explode in front of him, the agony radiating from his right cheek nearly making him nauseous as he fell onto his side in the dirt.

A yelp left unbidden from his throat as the leader surged forward and gripped him by the throat while he lay prone on the ground, struggling to regain his bearings as his head spun and his air supply was cut off. “He won’t come,” Jaskier gasps as another blow rains down, this time on his ribs, the shock of agony forcing him to bite into his lip to keep from sobbing. 

“He will. But, if he don’t…” The Reaver leader shrugged his bare shoulders, the scars on them nothing like the ones on the pale, build shoulders Jaskier had grown to love. These ones were jagged and ugly. He would bet his lute the man hadn’t gotten them due to any kind of heroics. “If he don’t show and give us the bounty for that dragon, we’ll jus’ take you with us. Got lots’a men who would enjoy you.”

The implication wasn’t lost on Jaskier, and for the first time since he realized he wasn’t alone, a fear he hadn’t felt once while being by Geralt’s side washed down his spine and turned his body cold, the icy grip of terror tightening its hands around his heart. 

The sound of something hitting the ground off in the dark foliage had the Reaver leader turning his head to glance behind him, hand still tight around Jaskier’s throat. A grunt and a cut off cry sounded out somewhere out sight before the man was ripped off him, the grip on his throat blessedly gone as the leader was pulled back by his hair and the sharp edge of a familiar sword swiped across his jugular before he even had time to shout. The spray of arterial blood that hit Jaskier’s clothing went unnoticed in his shock as the lead Reaver dropped to the ground to reveal furious golden eyes illuminated by the moonlight.

From that moment on, Jaskier could only describe the next few seconds as a bloodbath. Never had he seen Geralt tear into _anything_ with the ferocity he displayed at that moment. He was more animal than man as he all but tore out the throats of the remaining Reavers, snarls and growls rumbling from his chest as body after body hit the red stained dirt until there was no one left standing but the White Wolf himself, covered in gore and breathing heavily, steel sword clutched in a white knuckled grip. 

The intrusive scent of copper hit Jaskier like a slap to the face, the overwhelming amount of blood making his stomach churn with a gasp.

Geralt whipped around to face Jaskier as soon as he heard the gasp come from his lips, those catlike eyes practically glowing. _“Jaskier,”_ he breathed. 

Jaskier hated how that low, breathy voice made his heart skip a beat. It was like his body had already forgiven the man for telling him he was the source of everything wrong in the witcher’s life, breaking his heart nearly beyond repair. 

It wasn’t until Geralt strode toward him and reached out a bloodied hand to what the bard was sure was an ugly bruise on his cheek that his mind caught up to him. _“Don’t.”_

That large hand froze halfway toward his face before those thick fingers curled into a fist and returned to the owner’s side. Silence scorched between them like a burn Jaskier could physically feel before Geralt let out a rough noise and scrubbed a hand down his face. “Jaskier-”

“Why didn’t you let them take me?” He hated how his voice trembled, all the rage and hurt he had tried his best to turn into song instead of daggers cutting him inside now that the source of everything tearing him apart was standing in front of him looking like lost. 

“What?”

Jaskier grit his teeth. “If you had let them take me, you would get your wish.” The helpless look of confusion on Geralt’s face and the thinly veiled concern in his eyes did little to soothe him. “You’d never have to see me again. Never have to have me shovel more shit into your life.”

The wounded noise Geralt made at that actually gave Jaskier pause for a moment, but the feeling quickly faded into fury. How _dare_ he show up and save him like this when he was worth nothing to the man? When he was apparently the one who made everything in the witcher’s life horrible, when he was the one who burdened the lonely traveler with companionship and care. “Jas-”

“Don’t, Geralt. You made yourself clear enough earlier.” Pained grunts left his lips as Jaskier pushed himself up into a sitting position against the log, gripping his ribs to try and stave off some of the throbbing. An irritated sigh left the barrel chest of the man crouching in front of him. 

“At least let me make sure none of your ribs are broken. Could puncture your lung in your sleep.”

A bitter laugh made his side seize up in agony, but Jaskier bit back the pain and leveled Geralt with as much contempt in his expression as he could muster. “Wouldn’t that be your dream come true. I could be gone from your life for good, never cross your path again. God, you and your Child Surprise could live a happy life with Yennefer-”

_“Jaskier.”_

Jaskier’s jaw snapped closed at the tone in Geralt’s voice. He had never heard that tone before, not once in their many months of practically living out of each other’s pockets. It sounded raw and fragile, two things the witcher continually insisted he wasn’t. 

The crease between Geralt’s brows deepened as he searched for the right words before finally settling on a constipated sort of expression. His dry lips parted and closed like he was trying to force the words out, and Melitele help him, Jaskier found himself waiting with bated breath to see what the man would say. 

“I know I’m… bad with voicing things.” Geralt started, frowning deeper in warning when Jaskier scoffed. “I was upset with myself and took it out on you. I shouldn’t have done that.” Regret settled like a shroud over the man who most of the world thought was intimidating at best, but Jaskier could see the effort the man was trying to put into apologizing.

It was in his own Geralt way, of course, and while it was surprising the big bad witcher was trying to apologize in the first place, Jaskier wasn’t going to let him off that easy.  
After all, he had broken his heart whether he meant to or not.

“That’s a pretty lackluster apology.”

A grunt sounded from the eloquent white-haired man before Jaskier felt calloused fingertips carefully wipe away a spot of blood by the corner of his mouth, most likely from when he bit his tongue during the whole backhand to the face thing.

“I’m sorry.” Geralt whispered, regret swimming so clearly in those unnatural eyes Jaskier had grown to love that he couldn’t help but deflate just a bit, some of the outraged anger leaving him in one slow, labored breath. “I didn’t—shouldn’t have said those things. They're not true.”

“I’m not forgiving you that easy.”

“I know.”

“You broke my heart, Geralt, and I know you’re not oblivious to my feelings about you. I never tried to hide them.”

“…I know.”

“You’re an asshole and I should hate you for how you treated me up there,” Jaskier sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and worried it as he stared at the hulking man before him looking like he wanted to either bolt or disappear into the ground. “But I don’t. I don’t think I ever could.”

The relief that crashed over Geralt was a palpable thing, those gentle fingertips that had dotingly wiped the blood from his lip now cupping the uninjured side of his face so damn carefully that Jaskier wanted to cry. They were just as calloused as he’d imagined, though the witcher was caressing his face with more tenderness than he had ever dared to hope for. Actually, this whole situation was more than he ever thought could realistically happen. Sure, he figured Geralt would hopefully pull his head out of his arse at some point and seek him out to apologize, but that would take _years,_ if it happened at all. Time moved differently for a being who outlived humans many times over, Jaskier knew. It was likely he wouldn't have closure until long after he was six feet under at the pace Geralt went regarding processing emotions.

But here, covered in blood with Geralt similarly dirtied and bringing him forward for a kiss that tasted like honesty and affection, Jaskier sees himself coming to terms with what happened on that mountain if this was what it led to.

**Author's Note:**

> The song is Siúil a Rún by Celtic Woman if anyone was interested where the lyrics came from.


End file.
